


a brief history of pain relief

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Established Relationship, Intoxication, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, consensual sex while intoxicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5864530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I hope you're not planning on letting Detective Riley develop a drug habit," Harold says. </p><p>Set after 4x16, in which we learn about Harold's familiarity with medical marijuana.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a brief history of pain relief

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sky for beta & squeeing. <3

"Got a little surprise for you," John says with the smile that means he has done something _terrible._

Harold turns off the light in the kitchen. Detective Riley is spending more and more nights at Professor Whistler's apartment: Harold can't tell if it's a convincing cover, the professor and his cop boyfriend enjoying some downtime, or if their security habits concerning Samaritan are just slipping. Either way: spending time around Harold keeps John happy, and a happy John is less likely to take stupid risks and get himself hurt. Well. A _little_ less likely.

John waits for him in the hallway, almost bouncing on his toes. He has rolled up his sleeves and taken off his shoes. His hands are clasped behind his back. On a whim, Harold leans in to kiss the corner of his smiling mouth. He won't pretend that his days aren't considerably brighter after having spent the night with John, the arrangement isn't strictly altruistic.

"Show me," Harold says.

John produces two expertly rolled joints in a plastic bag. _Oh._

"Your back has been acting up," John says quickly, "and when you mentioned medical marijuana for chronic back pain, well. It gave me the idea. Actually, you _implied_ that you were familiar with it and stonewalled me when I asked."

"Detective Riley shouldn't have exposed himself like that, carrying around illegal substances. What if you had gotten caught?"

John's face falls a little. "I was careful," he says softly.

Harold takes the bag from him and opens it, inhaling the smell. It reminds him of college parties, Nathan gesticulating and talking animatedly between taking sips of beer. They passed the joint between them, their hands tangling clumsily. Nathan didn't cough once, looking perfectly at ease even when lighting up for the first time. It made him relaxed and physically affectionate, until he was spread over Harold like a sleepy dog, aimlessly nuzzling his jaw. The other memories aren't as pleasant: physical therapy after the surgery, Harold's hands shaking too badly to open the bottle of pills. The pain getting so bad that he tried every kind of relief he could think of, alcohol and pills and pot.

"I hope you're not planning on letting Detective Riley develop a drug habit," Harold says.

"Nah, it's just this one time, I think," John says, grinning. Then the smile slides off his face, replaced by a blank expression. "If you don't want to do it, just say so. I just thought it might help you relax a little, feel better."

"You worry too much about me," Harold says, reaching out to touch John's arm, running his thumb over John's wrist. "And to answer your question, I _have_ been experimenting with different treatments for chronic pain, not all of them legal. I realized rather quickly that medical marijuana was not a long-term solution."

John doesn't ask, which is just as well. Harold takes one of the joints out of the plastic bag. "Let me see if I can find a lighter," he says, suddenly determined.

John beams at him, indicating that Harold has made the right decision.

\--

They settle down on the couch in the living room, John leaning against Harold's side, his arm outstretched on the back of the couch behind him.

"I used to make tea out of the leaves," Harold says, letting the zippo lighter snap open.

John chuckles and presses a kiss against Harold's temple. Even after all of this time, every bit of personal information that he manages to tease out of Harold seems to delight him beyond measure. "Of course you did," John says.

"Now you know my history of illicit substance abuse, but I don't know yours," Harold says.

John shrugs. "Smoked some cigarettes when I was in high school," he offers.

Harold raises a scandalized eyebrow at him. "Oh my," he says, "I did not realize that I was such a corrupting influence on you, Mr. Reese."

John licks his lips. "Maybe I like being corrupted," he says, low and insinuating.

Harold lets his gaze run over John's body. "It seems like you do," he says. He lights the joint and takes a hit, exhaling a perfect smoke ring.

"Showoff," John says.

Harold passes him the joint. "It's just like smoking cigarettes, just be careful not to --"

John coughs. He stares at Harold accusingly.

"... inhale too much at once," Harold finishes. John hands him back the joint, waving away the cloud of smoke in front of his face. Harold leans against John, rests his head on John's shoulder. He takes another drag and feels the world go soft around the edges. Everything becomes a little less daring and important, a little friendlier.

"Mmh," John says, behind him. He nuzzles close, nosing at Harold's hair. "Feels weird," he says. He takes the next hit without coughing, stretching his long limbs out on the couch.

"Are you alright?" Harold asks. The quality seems to be good, for which he is thankful: he can't use any extra paranoia on top of his very reasonable distrust of the surveillance state in general.

John hums and kisses Harold's throat. "Fine, just. Can't really focus on anything."

“Hmh, don't worry too much about it,” Harold says. Then an idea strikes. Harold disentangles himself so he can turn around to face John. John makes a displeased sound, pouting at the loss of contact. John looks gorgeous, draped over the couch, looking up at Harold from under his lashes.

"Open your mouth," Harold says.

John does, and Harold inhales and leans in close enough that their lips are almost touching, breathing smoke into John's mouth. John's eyes widen as he inhales. He pulls Harold close for a kiss, unhurried and a little filthy, while Harold balances the joint in his hand, trying not to drop it.

"Again," John says, smiling loopily. He seems to be comfortable, and happy, for which Harold is glad.

Harold obeys, breathing smoke into John's mouth, his hand on John's jaw. Harold drops the finished joint into a glass on the table, the flame sizzling in the water before dying down. John is nosing at his open collar, rubbing his face over Harold's shirt.

“How are you?” Harold asks, petting John's head.

John makes a happy noise. “Hungry,” he says, then: “Mmh, you smell really good.” One of his legs is spread over Harold's lap, and he is curled up closely, warm and pliant beneath Harold's hands.

“I could make something to eat, if you'd like,” Harold says.

John raises his head to frown at him. “Hmh? No, stay here,” he says, clinging to Harold's shoulders and pressing his cheek against Harold's chest.

Harold can feel the effect, too: a warmth spreads through him, makes his limbs feel heavy and sated. He pulls John closer, strokes his palms over John's back. John snuggles against him, stroking over Harold's sides, playing with the buttons on his shirt.

“This is nice,” John says, dreamily. He mouths at Harold's collar bone. “Everything is. Nice.”

Harold hums in agreement. He moves one hand up to stroke John's neck, lightly scrape his fingernails over the sensitive skin. John goes completely boneless against him. He _moans_ in pleasure, blissed-out and intoxicated with touch. Well. Not _just_ touch.

“Wanna sit on your lap,” John murmurs. He slurs his speech a little. “Want you to touch me.”

He shifts his hips a little and Harold can feel that John is hard in his pants. He doesn't seem too motivated to do anything about it, though, just lies on top of Harold like a stranded sea animal and makes happy sounds.

Harold's mind is hazy: he dimly remembers that he ought to worry about something, make plans or take care of things, but he is just too content to stay where he is, touching John, warm and real and _his._

“Harold,” John says, mouth wet and hot against Harold's throat. He is pushing himself up on his knees with Harold's thigh between his legs, and leans in to kiss him.

Harold unbuttons John's shirt, which is _difficult_ , not only because John won't let him come up for air, but also because his hands don't quite work right: he is clumsy and slow and opens John's shirt one complicated button at a time until he gets his hands on John's stomach, his chest. John groans into his mouth as soon as Harold touches him. His hair sticks up from his head and his cheeks are flushed.

“You're exceptionally beautiful,” Harold says against John's lips, quite proud of himself for managing a word like “exceptionally” in his present state.

John shivers and leans in to kiss Harold's cheeks, his jaw, along the side of his throat. His hips are rutting against Harold's thigh.

“You are,” Harold says, “kind and thoughtful and so --” He can't think of the word, but John is whining and holding on to Harold's shoulders and humping his leg, so Harold has the presence of mind to nudge him onto his back, let him stretch out on the couch.

“Come here,” John says, tugging at Harold's shirt, except then Harold slides onto his knees in front of the couch. Harold unbuttons John's pants with some difficulty, frowning at the zipper before remembering how it _works_. “Oh,” John says, surprised.

Harold doesn't mind the floor under his knees or the awkward angle, he simply leans down and takes John into his mouth. The _sounds_ John makes are downright obscene: he moans and whimpers, his hand combing through Harold's hair. Harold sucks his cock until John's fingers tighten in his hair, then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits up, getting back onto the couch.

John's body is covering him instantly, his cock sliding against the wool of Harold's suit, his hands on the sides of Harold's face, holding him still so John can kiss him.

“ _Harold,_ ” John says, stroking Harold's face, his fingers splayed over his pulse point. He says Harold's name like Harold is a miracle, a revelation.

“Shh, I've got you, I've got you,” Harold whispers, getting a hand between them to wrap it around John's cock.

Harold suddenly feels quite urgent about his own desire, aching to be touched, but he wants to take care of John first, give him everything he could ask for. John's eyelids flutter when he fucks into Harold's hand. He bites his lip in concentration, resting his forehead against Harold's.

“My precious, gorgeous boy,” Harold says, tightening his grip, and that does it for John: he keens and shudders and comes all over Harold's hand, both of their clothes. His eyes are heavy-lidded and his lip is red and swollen where he bit at it, and he leans against Harold, kissing the soft skin behind his ear, every bit of his throat that John can reach, and Harold pulls him close.

“ _John,_ ” Harold says, a little strangled, and John leans back to squint at him, looking extremely confused for a second before Harold takes John's hand and places it over his crotch, beyond embarrassment for his own need.

“Oh, yes,” John says, brightening up. “Yes, let me, I want --” He says, and then he unbuttons Harold's pants – why is he still _coordinated_ \- and gets his cock out, wrapping a warm, calloused hand around it. John leans down to kiss Harold some more, steadily jerking his cock, and Harold clutches at his shoulders and listens to the little noises that come out of his mouth, sweet and a little broken.

“I could do this all day,” John murmurs against Harold's lips, “stay in bed with you, curl up and cuddle and _nap_ , I could. Want to wake you up with my mouth around your cock, I want – Harold, I want --”

“I know,” Harold says, choked, holding on to John's shoulders like he might _drown_. “John. I promise you don't ever have to be alone again,” Harold says, and then John runs his thumb over that spot that makes Harold shudder and he's gone, his orgasm leaving him breathless while John strokes him through it.

Harold dimly considers cleaning them up, but John just raises his hand to his mouth and licks Harold's taste off his fingers. Harold makes a helpless noise, and John grins at him and lies down on top of him again, radiating happiness.

“I am not sleeping like this,” Harold says, wiping his own hand on a nearby pillow while making a face.

“Mmh,” John says, grabbing Harold's free hand and entwining their fingers. Then, he tucks his head between Harold's chin and chest, cuddling up to him. “Just a little longer,” John says.

He lies still for about two minutes before turning his head to mouth at Harold's throat.

“You know, there's one more joint left in the bag, maybe we can do this again sometime,” John says sleepily.

Harold kisses the top of John's head. “You're a terrible influence,” he says.

He can feel John smiling against his skin.

– fin


End file.
